


Ejùlir

by luminous



Category: The Hobbit (2012), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M, Slavery, Soul Bond
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-01-12
Updated: 2015-01-26
Packaged: 2017-11-25 05:19:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 7,143
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/635522
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/luminous/pseuds/luminous
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Bilbo is gravely injured by a warg, Thorin and the company must decide if saving Bilbo is worth the price.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Warg

Bilbo was the last thing Thorin saw before the darkness overtook him.

Bilbo was the first on his lips when he awoke.

“The Halfling?” 

Thorin squinted up at Gandalf as he struggled into a sitting position, the lancing pain nearly sending him back down again.  Gandalf’s neutral expression faltered, and Thorin impatiently scanned the members of his clan that were now hovering over their leader. Two of the dwarves, Thorin didn’t pause to notice which two, hooked their arms around Thorin and hoisted him up onto his feet.

After failing to locate his target, Thorin’s gaze locked with Gandalf’s again.

“Where. Is. The. Hobbit.” His words were ground out, and the two that still had their arms supporting Thorin tensed and gripped him tightly.

“His eagle is coming, Thorin.” Gandalf paused, appearing weary and as ancient as his years. “We must be prepared for the worst, however. I fear Bilbo did not fare well.”

A cry pierced the air and the company strained their necks to catch a glimpse. The massive bronze eagle was circling far overhead, searching for a safe place to drop his injured passenger. Thorin conjured images of a snarling warg, mouth and teeth smeared with crimson, standing triumphantly over the shredded body of a tiny hobbit. The dwarf’s stomach reeled at the thought, and he quickly steeled himself.

After huge claws had deposited the crumpled form and the eagle made its swift departure, Thorin was the first to reach him.

He knelt, ignoring the sharp jabbing in his chest that indicated at least one broken rib, fumbling to turn Bilbo from his side to his back. His hands came back bloodied, but Thorin’s attention did not waver from the hobbit.

Bilbo was indeed not well. His face was covered in cuts and scratches, some still steadily oozing, and a large bruise was forming above his right brow. His red coat was no more than threads, and his shirt was nearly as bad. The worst of his wounds were a set of deep puncture marks that formed a bloody crescent on Bilbo’s abdomen. Thorin did not need to turn Bilbo around to know there would be a matching set on his back.

A warg had picked Bilbo up and bit straight through his small, soft body.

Dread filled Thorin, for he knew these wounds could not be mended with simple stitching. As he lifted his hand to feel for Bilbo’s pulse, a low moan and then a cough wracked the small halfling’s form. His left hand gripping Bilbo’s shoulder tightly, Thorin grasped Bilbo’s face just as his eyelids made a half-hearted flutter.

“Come on, Halfling,” Thorin muttered, now kneeling nearly all the way over Bilbo. He lightly shook the body that had stilled again under his palms. “You foolish boy. What did you expect when you rushed in, flailing that needle around like a half-crazed wren?”

His fingers curled, digging firmly into Bilbo’s shoulder, and Thorin bowed his head. His resolve was faltering, and grief flooded through him, mixing emotional pain with physical. The anguish of losing his family and so many of his people was fresh after facing the damned Pale Orc once again. The very real possibility of losing one of the few under his protection had Thorin choking back a despairing sob, and he sought to put voice to the roiling emotions inside him. 

“I was wrong.” Thorin’s voice had softened, but now cracked with thick emotion. “You belong on this journey as much as any Dwarf here. You saved my life, Bilbo, and you cannot leave us. You are part of this clan now.”

A pearly tear fell onto Bilbo’s chin from above, startling Thorin into recoiling away from the Halfling. Gandalf and the others took advantage of the moment to swarm around Bilbo, tearing away the remains of his clothing and using the scraps to stop some of the bleeding. Thorin swiped away the moisture in his eyes, nearly growling at his own weakness.

And then came a ragged gasp from the center of the now ring of dwarves tending to Bilbo. A few voices spoke quiet, soothing words, while others continued tending, but a small, scratchy sound could be heard beneath it.   
  
“ _Thorin.”_


	2. ôhùtuk

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All mistakes are my own.

 “ _Thorin.”_

Several heads turned towards Thorin, who sat numbly on the rocky ground, but he made no move to get closer. Thorin knew Bilbo didn’t have long. He knew that he should be near when the Halfling passed. He could not make himself watch, even as the hobbit called for him. The aching grief was already bringing him perilously close to tears, but there would be no time for mourning. He must remain grounded for his company, for his people.

Gandalf, leaning wearily on his staff just outside the ring of dwarves, stared grimly down at Bilbo before lifting his gaze to the steel-faced king. 

“Thorin, there is not much time.” His voice wavered, but continued. “If you are going to say goodbye…”  
  
Ori, kneeling close to Bilbo’s head, startled at the wizard’s finality. “There must be something we can do, Gandalf. Your magic-”  
  
“No, Ori.” The wizard sighed heavily, shaking his head at the young dwarf. “This is something I cannot fix.”  
  
“The elves-“

“Are distant. We would not reach them in time.”

A thick blanket of silence fell over the company, broken only by Bilbo’s tiny whimpers.

Balin’s soft voice rose from the middle of the dwarven circle. “There is something, Gandalf.”

Thorin’s heart stuttered, but he quickly stamped out any misguided hope. He felt a surge of annoyance, and he glared darkly at the older dwarf.  _Why does he insist on drawing this out? We are out of options. There is nothing we can do. There is nothing I can do._    _I should be laying where Bilbo is now-_

Thorin stemmed the barrage of guilt and pain by biting down roughly on his tongue, pulling himself forcefully out of his thoughts. He stood with a grimace, eyes not wavering from Balin. 

“Don’t be a fool,” he hissed furiously.

Balin stood in response, refusing to flinch from Thorin’s angry gaze.  “Atkâtel, Thorin... lakdel mahkurush, melhekhith,” he said slowly.

Many of the dwarves stirred uncomfortably at this, though Fili and Kili seemed to not hear the words at all. Sitting on either side of the halfling’s prone form, the two brothers were simultaneously applying pressure to his abdomen with one hand, blood soaking through their makeshift bandages. They had each grasped one of Bilbo’s smaller hands within their palms, sadness etched clearly in their expressions.

“The bond, Balin?” Bofur asked incredulously, “Ignorin’ the fact that Bilbo is a  _hobbit_  and not a  _dwarf,_  that ritual hasn’t been performed in nigh a thousand years. We donnae have the proper words.”

“Thorin does.”  

Thorin had known instantly of what Balin spoke. It was a binding ritual used in times much darker than these, meant to tie an  _ejùlir_ (chained one) to his or her  _ôhùtuk_ (master). The ejùlir were, in essence, lifelong slaves. They were bound, body and mind, to their ôhùtuk. However, once the lakdel mahkurush was severed or broken, through ritual or death of their ôhùtuk, the chained one would perish. Ejùlir were prized by the wealthy and royal, both as status symbols and for their practical uses.

Ejùlir were compelled through the bond to obey orders given by their ôhùtuk, making them entirely trustworthy and dependable. Every dwarven king for generations had an ejùlir confidant by their side. The bond also allowed for some transference of energy from one side to the other. If the ejùlir were taken ill, the ôhùtuk could heal them at some personal cost.  

“No.” Thorin said immediately. Even if it were possible to bind a hobbit to a dwarf, the lakdel mahkurush was no better than death. The ejùlir have no autonomy whatsoever. “There is a reason the bond was outlawed, and I will not see Bilbo suffer it.”  

“And you would see him die for protecting you?” Balin asked softly.

Thorin stood in silence, fury, guilt, and sadness laying siege to his mind.

Balin shook his head and glanced at the others around him. “This is not a decision for one dwarf,” he turned to Gandalf, who had yet to voice his opinion, “or wizard to make.”

“We will vote,” Balin concluded firmly.

Thorin was in a maelstrom of emotions, and he barely found the words to protest. “I will not…” he started vehemently, before quickly trailing off as he took in the faces of his companions. Some were tight and pained. Some were hopeful. But he felt with raw certainty that all were against him. With a loud snarl, he spun on his heels and stalked heatedly away from the group, fists curled tight.

“I’m sorry, my boy.” Balin sighed, tugging his beard in apparent frustration.

The vote took no longer than five minutes, each dwarf given the opportunity to speak. Not a single one made protest, and Gandalf had refrained from voting altogether.

“Bilbo’s fate rests in your hands, my friends.” He had said gravely, before clutching his staff and walking over to Thorin, who stood precariously close to the edge of the carrock.

As the vote ended, Gandalf returned with their king, guiding him firmly with his hand. It was clear that the wizard had spoken to Thorin, for his eyes were downcast in muted acceptance.  

“I will do it.”

Many of the dwarves looked away, ashamed that they had forced their leader’s hand. Thorin took unsteady steps forward, and the dwarves parted. Kili and Fili finally released Bilbo’s hands, reluctantly moving away from their charge. Thorin stopped just before reaching the Halfling.

Bilbo shivered furiously, eyed glued tightly shut and beads of sweat peppering his forehead. He looked so small to Thorin, naked except for a pair of tattered trousers. He closed his eyes, both to spare himself the sight of Bilbo, and to search his mind for memories of the lakdel mahkurush. If the bonding was successful, the Halfling would be his responsibility. The Halfling would be his to protect. The Halfling would be his to control, whether he wanted to or not. The Halfling would be his.

He raised his arms over Bilbo, palms facing down. The deep hum Khuzdul left Thorin’s lips before he fully realized what he was doing. And then it was too late. The ritual buzzed low in the air around him, making his stomach churn and his skin prickle.  Thorin released his control, the ancient words feeding through him like he had spoken them thousands of times before. In his mind, the words became motes of energy, and each phrase linked several motes together. Soon, a thick blanket of energy had all but eclipsed Thorin’s mind, leaving him no room for doubt. The sound slowly intensified as Thorin wove the ritual, cresting and falling with the rhythm of his voice.  
  
Thorin knelt, his voice not wavering, and placed his hands on either side of Bilbo’s face. His tone grew louder, and the Khuzdul phrases were clipped. Like a barb, Thorin thrust the blanket of motes into Bilbo’s mind, covering everything in an inescapable wall of white. His words were nails, driving his power deeper and deeper into the hobbit’s mind. He did not pause, though he felt the Halfling below him convulsing beneath his fingertips.

As soon as the last motes of power escaped Thorin, his chanting stopped abruptly, and darkness claimed him. 


	3. Awakening

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone for the kind reviews and kudos! I wasn't expecting a response at all, and definitely not a positive one! You're all glorious and I love you! 
> 
> I'm sorry for the short-ish chapter. I should have another one up tomorrow (well, today. It's 4 am right now), hopefully. All mistakes are my own.

Bilbo’s head gave a particularly painful throb, jerking him out of his restless sleep. His mouth felt like parchment. He couldn’t remember the night previous, but judging by his grogginess, splitting headache, and a mouth that tasted like orc’s arse, he’d wager the company drank him under the table.

He groaned, bringing his hands up to his face and dragging the heels of his palms roughly against his eyelids. “Damn all the bloody dwarves in this existence and the next,” he rasped, finally opening his eyes. The room blurred and spun nauseatingly, so he quickly scrunched his eyes closed again.  _When I get my hands on whoever’s idea this wa-_

The dusty cogs in Bilbo’s mind gave a tiny lurch.  _Wait… Room? We aren’t in Rivendell, are we? I remember leaving. Stone giants. Goblins. Orc-_

“Oh.”  _Oh._

This was not Rivendell, and Bilbo did not have a hangover. Bilbo opened his eyes again, and this time his vision only tilted momentarily and then focused on the oak-beamed ceiling. He peeled away the heavy comforter (dark blue with a ring of tiny stitched bears, he noted) and peered worriedly down his length. He was naked except for a white bandage wrapped tightly around his midsection, though it was clean and had no signs of bleeding.

He brushes his fingers across the cotton dressing, testing the wound that was surely below. He pressed in, wincing at the tenderness. It hurt, but he certainly wasn’t in agony. Nothing life-threatening, then. Bilbo, relieved, released the breath he didn’t know he had been holding, and brought his hand down onto the mattress, using it to start the slow process of hoisting himself up against the backboard.

A few pained moments later, he was situated in a halfway comfortable position that allowed him to survey the bedroom. It was immense! The bed itself could easily fit twenty hobbits with space to spare, and it only took up a tenth of the huge room. A great fireplace filled with huge logs crackled within the farthest wall, but Bilbo’s distance meant he felt only comfortable waves of heat.  The rest of the room was decorated with masterfully carved mahogany furnishings, including a hulking armoire, a cluttered table surrounded by stout chairs, and a well cushioned couch. The furniture suggested the room did not belong to any hobbit or dwarf, because it was designed for someone very large indeed.

A low woof startled Bilbo out of his inspection, and he turned to see a massive hound, front paws propped on the mattress, staring down at him. Mottled black and brown, the dog easily outweighed him, and though he appeared rather unthreatening, Bilbo definitely did not want to get chomped by its inch long canines. The dog woofed again, so Bilbo scooted a fraction closer and held his hand out, allowing it to take in his scent. The hound (or was it a small bear?) seemed to take this as permission, because it clambered awkwardly up beside Bilbo, gave a single lick to his face, and plopped itself right on his lap.

Well,  _over_  Bilbo’s lap, engulfing his bottom half entirely in a mountain of heavy fur. He briefly considered pushing it off, ended up sighing resignedly and patting the animal’s side. With his wounds, Bilbo doubted he could even budge the dog.

The low creaking of a door reached Bilbo’s ears, though his vision was obscured by the mass huddled on top of him.

“Hadda! Ge’off tha’ poor lad, ya old mutt.” Boomed a deep voice. Bilbo could hear footsteps as the man approached, shooing the beast off of Bilbo. As the dog (Hadda?) made a hasty retreat, one of her hind legs squished heavily into Bilbo’s abdomen, and he had to stifle a yelp, which turned more into a completely embarrassing whimper.

“Ach, I’m sorry,” the man said guiltily, “Hadda doesn’a get many opportunities ta get up’n the bed. Good ta see ya awake, lad.”

Bilbo gaped up at the man who was now hulking over him.  _Was everything huge in this house?_ Bilbo had half a mind to consider him a giant, for a hobbit could easily walk between the man’s legs without touching skin. His black hair was long, and his thick beard could rival any in the company of dwarves. Unlike the dwarves, however, the giant did not braid or tame his hair in any manner, giving him the appearance of some wild animal. His nose was broad, and his face merry.

“I’m sorry…” Bilbo started, confused, “Who are you?”

The man looked momentarily confused, as if Bilbo had asked him a ridiculous question. “My name is Beorn, an’ this is my home,” he said finally, “You’n yer dwarves have been my guests here for near to a week.”

Bilbo’s mind stuttered.  _A whole week? How can that be? His wounds aren’t nearly bad enough to rend him unconscious for seven days._  

Bilbo’s face must have shown his surprised. “Yer a very lucky hobbit, master Baggins.  Ya would have died if—“

“Beorn. That’s enough.” Thorin said sharply, stepping out from behind Beorn’s mammoth shadow and approaching the side of Bilbo’s bed.  Bilbo had not realized another had entered with Beorn, but he was happy to see a familiar face.

“Thorin,” Bilbo murmured, relieved.

The dwarf went rigid, staring determinedly at the hardwood floor. “Our host is correct. You have been resting for a sennight, recovering from a warg’s bite.”

A warg? Bilbo blinked, attempting to dredge up the memory of his attack, but only coming up a fuzzy scene of toppled trees and a racing heart. “I cannot remember what happened…” Bilbo said, looking up at Thorin for details.

“It is probably better that you do not, burglar. You are alive and well.” Thorin frowned deeply, lines etching his forehead, and appeared to be collecting himself. “Do not question it further.” Thorin finally looked up at Bilbo, and stared commandingly into his eyes.

Bilbo shrank into his coverings, but quickly nodded his head. “Yes, alright,” he muttered hastily and added, “Sorry.” Bilbo wasn’t sure what he was apologizing about, but the king seemed sharp and reprimanding in tone. Though now that Bilbo thought about it, he’d rather not know what transpired after all. 


	4. Command

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All mistakes are my own. And there are plenty.

Beorn and Thorin left soon after, sending a human maid in their wake. The girl was homely, but had a large smile and a twinkle in her eye that Bilbo instantly liked. She bustled around him, tidying up the room whilst keeping up a constant stream of chatter, mostly focused on the  _handsome_  dwarves, and how nice it was to have such a large company of  _courteous_ ,  _kind_ , oh, and did she mention _handsome_ folk around.  

“Curly hasn’t been too pleased, though. He’s our cook. Says the dwarves’ll eat us out of house and home before next week comes.” She said, all the while grinning. “No matter. Kili’s quite the looker, isn’t he?”

Bilbo realized the question was aimed at him, and he started, scrambling for an appropriate answer. “Ah, uhm… I wouldn’t know, miss.” He said lamely.

She paused, duster in hand, and gave Bilbo a curious look. “No, I suppose not,” she murmured, shaking her head before continuing to clean, “And you can call me Mary, Master Baggins.”  
  
“Mary, then.” Bilbo gave her a friendly smile. “And I’m just Bilbo, if you don’t mind.”

“The leader… Thorn? Thoril? The broody one.”

“Thorin?”

“Yes, him! He barely left your side whiles you were resting. Wouldn’t even let me in to tidy this place up.” She said softly, her expression almost… wistful? “I’d give anything to have someone care about me like that.”

Bilbo couldn’t stop a small chuckle from escaping, though that turned into an awkward, pained wheeze.  “You’re mistaken, I’m afraid. Thorin does not  _care_  for me at all. He doesn’t even like me.” He said, suddenly annoyed.  
  
She huffed, turning a disbelieving eye to Bilbo. “I seen him, sir, holdin’ your hand like a worried husband. And when I asked Beorn whether you two were married, he said, ‘Mary, little one, there are some connections tha’ surpass e’n marriage.’”   
  
Bilbo stared blankly, suddenly acquiring a slight twitch in his eye.  _What in the name of Eru is that supposed to mean?_  Bilbo supposed Beorn must have somehow vastly misinterpreted the hobbit’s relationship to Thorin, because that is the most absurd thing he’s ever heard.  _Me and Thorin? Married? I’d sooner cut off my ring finger and feed it to Hadda._  If anything, Thorin was likely hoping for Bilbo’s untimely demise, and therefore prayerfully checking the Halfling’s pulse every so often, not holding his hand.

Bilbo shook his head, not even attempting to correct Mary, who had already gone on a tangent about Kili’s ‘silken locks’ and ‘smile that could melt even the coldest of hearts.’

After Mary finished tidying, she helped him into the washroom. Reluctant as he was to bear himself so immodestly to a lady, she told him not unkindly that it was either her or one of the dwarves. And since he would only have to face Mary so long as they were Beorn’s company, he settled for the temporary embarrassment.

When his bandages were carefully removed, Bilbo was pleased to see that, as he assumed earlier, the wounds were not so bad. Half-rings of crescent shaped lesions on both front and back midsection had been dutifully stitched, and appeared to be healing without fault.  _The warg’s bite must have been shallow or stopped partway through,_  Bilbo mused. Before he could ponder it further, Mary ushered him into a huge basin of blissfully warm water.

After Bilbo was cleaned and dried, Mary assisted Bilbo in re-dressing his wound and procured a new set of clothes for him. The ensemble included simple olive green trousers and a sturdy, if slightly old and graying, shirt. Unexpectedly, Bilbo was also handed a leather belt and blue-velvet tunic that reached just above his knees. It was finely made, and whoever the previous owner was had taken good care of it. There were a few spots that had been patched with a needle and thread, and the lace on the sleeves and neck had seen better days, but it was still undoubtedly handsome. And though the middle was a bit too large for Bilbo, when he synched the belt tight the outfit felt almost tailored for him.

“From your dwarf company,” Mary said knowingly, before Bilbo could question her.

If the thought of wearing dwarven clothes filled him with an odd sort of warmth, Bilbo did not linger on it.  

0=0=0

Mary gave him the choice of eating first, or visiting the company and eating dinner with them later that evening. Bilbo’s stomach gave little grumble at the thought of a meal, but he was also strangely eager to see his friends once again. He settled on going to the dwarves, and decided that if he got too hungry he’d force one of them to find him some bread and butter.

He leaned heavily on Mary as they walked down the hall. Beorn’s home reminded Bilbo of his hobbit hole, with wooden beams and an arched ceiling. The floor was inlaid with stunning dark woods, whorled with sanded down knots and gleaming with oils. So focused was he on the intricate patterns set in the wood, he nearly missed the queer sight of a dog racing by on his hind legs. Momentarily confused, he twisted his head around to see if he had been mistaken, but the creature was already past the corner.

Mary beamed at him as he turned back. They had stopped in front of a handleless oaken doorway, which she easily pushed open singlehandedly and pressed them both inside. Within was a large dining hall, though it had recently been repurposed as a campsite for thirteen dwarves. The long tables were pushed to the side of the room, making space for bedrolls and supplies. Like the one in his bedroom, a fireplace sat on the far end of the hall, crackling with warmth.

As he entered, thirteen pairs of eyes immediately sought him out. Silence reigned for a stretched moment, and Bilbo shifted self-consciously in Mary’s grasp, worried that he’d somehow done wrong. But then the noise flared to life, and several over-enthusiastic dwarves raced over to the hobbit and smothered him in embraces.

“Bilbo!” Kili roared, grasping Bilbo’s shoulders and effectively squashing his face against the taller dwarf’s collarbone.

“Good to see you’re not dead, Halfling,” Fili said untactfully, smiling as he tugged Bilbo into his arms.

Ori watched from beside Fili, nervously picking at the hem of his tunic.

He was passed down the line of dwarves, some choosing to greet him with hugs, some with a fond pat on the head or cheek, and, most memorably, a smooch on the lips from a misty-eyed Dwalin. The kiss prompted howls of laughter and catcalls from the company, and Bilbo couldn’t help but grin up at the usually reserved dwarf.

“Oi, you big softy,” Gloin muttered, nudging Dwalin with his elbow.

“You shouldn’t be out of bed, burglar.”

Thorin stepped forward, and the dwarves huddled around the hobbit hastily parted to make way for him. The king stared heatedly at Dwalin, who had remained behind Bilbo, until he bowed his head and shuffled away. Bilbo narrowed his eyes at Thorin, feeling Tookish indignation boil through him.   _The nerve he has. He may not find my company pleasing, but he has no right stemming my relationship with the others._

“I will very well be out of bed whenever I please, Thorin, as you are not my father, my guardian, or my king,” Bilbo huffed angrily, red in the face, “I am perfectly fine.”

As fate was cruel and capricious, Bilbo should have expected to be nearly brought to his knees from a spasm of pain through his abdomen as soon as the word ‘fine’ left his lips. He should have expected his whimper as the pain passed, because there was no way in hell fate was letting it go unnoticed. However, never would he have expected to be hoisted into the arms of one Thorin Oakenshield like some distressed maiden. Stunned at the quick turn of events, Bilbo didn’t even have the chance to struggle before Thorin was carrying him out of the hall.  
  
“Let me down!” Bilbo finally cried as the door swung shut behind them, “Put me down this instant, or I swear I’ll-“

“Quiet,” Thorin muttered through clenched teeth, his rage barely in check.

Bilbo’s mouth snapped shut. He fumed, glaring daggers into Thorin’s chin, though the dwarf did not look back. He opened his mouth again to give Thorin another tongue-lashing, but he found that he could no longer work his voice. Puzzled, he tried again, massaging his throat in alarm. He heard an exasperated sigh from Thorin, and Bilbo tried to frantically motion with his hands at his throat and mouth. The dwarf gave him a lingering look of pity, though Bilbo couldn’t fathom why he wasn’t assisting him in regaining his voice _. Did he not understand?_  His hands flailed as his chest constricted with panic, eyes desperately pleading with Thorin.  _Please, help._

“Sleep, little one,” the dwarf murmured, tightening his hold around Bilbo and stilling his limbs.

He was asleep before he fully understood the words.


	5. Shackled

Bilbo could only see darkness when he woke, but he knew Thorin sat close to his bedside. He could hear light huffs of breath as the dwarf exhaled, and Bilbo nearly choked from the heavy feeling weighing on his chest. Intuitively, he knew he could speak again, but the most he could manage was a shuddering intake of air. His thoughts were chaotic, screaming at him to flee, to attack, to not sit and accept whatever  _this_ was.

Bilbo nearly cried out when he felt fingers brush his arm. Instead, he hunched and scrambled backwards to the far edge of his bed, barely stopping himself from tumbling off. His eyes adjusting to the low light of dying embers, Bilbo discerned the faint outline of Thorin, who had not moved to reach for the Halfling again.

“Stay away from me, Thorin Oakenshield,” Bilbo hissed, still coiled defensively. His thoughts had cohered into strategy. He didn’t know how much power Thorin had over him, but he would not go down without a fight. Bilbo attempted to recall the jabs and parries Dwalin had briefly attempted to teach him, though he knew Thorin had the physical advantage. He glanced at the doorway, hoping he could make a dash for it if the dwarf king tried anything.

“I-” Thorin started gruffly, stopping at Bilbo’s flinch, before clearing his throat and continuing, “I may have done you a disservice. I should have explained… I should not have done it…” He trailed off, words lost.

A bubble of hysterical laughter escaped Bilbo before he could push it down. “Whatever  _it_  is, Thorin, you will reverse it. You will take it back, because I certainly do not want it.”  

Silence. Neither moved an inch.

“You- You can, can’t you? This must be some absolutely ridiculous mistake. No one… this doesn’t  _happen._ I don’t half understand it, but I am not some doll whose strings can be yanked.”

“Bilbo-“

He knew what that voice implied. He knew without hearing anything else Thorin had to say, and so he did the only thing his body would let him. He ran. He sprang out of bed and sprinted as quickly as he could towards the closed door, blood rushing in his ears. His hand wrenched at the knob, pulling at it frantically before noticing that it was locked from the outside. He quickly switched tactics, pounding his fists loudly against the door.  
  
“Help! Someone open the do-!” Hands grabbed Bilbo’s shoulders and flipped him around, pressing his back into the doorway. Thorin looked furious, staring down at the hobbit with an animal ferocity. Only momentarily stunned, Bilbo quickly regained himself and kicked out at Thorin’s shins and thrust his hands into the larger dwarf’s chest. Bilbo heard a low grunt as one of his flails hit home, though his triumph was short lived.

Thorin dug his forearm painfully into Bilbo’s collarbones, boxing his limbs in by crowding close and  _pressing_. He wiggled sideways, attempting to slip through the strong grip, but Thorin held firm.  
  
“I can order you pliant, little thief, if you cannot manage to do so on your own,” Thorin bit out angrily.

Bilbo stilled, but glared up at Thorin, whose face was disconcertingly close to his own.  

“You will release me at once. I will gather my belongings, and I will journey back to the Shire. Alone. Our contract is void.”

“The contract,” Thorin chuckled quietly, lowering his head so that their foreheads nearly met. “We have a new contract, one that you cannot run from. No, Bilbo, you will not return to your hobbit hole. Not now and not ever.”

Bilbo’s anger peaked, and he had to consciously force his limbs to stay still. He growled in frustration, feeling both impotent and trapped. He took a deep breath, lowering his voice to keep from screaming at Thorin.

“You can’t keep me here. I will find a way to leave.” Bilbo surprised himself with the levelness in his voice. He straightened his shoulders and forced his chin upwards to stare more firmly into the dwarf’s eyes, which had the unintended side-effect of bringing them nose to nose. He would not be cowed.

“And you would die before you reached Rivendell. There are many things this bond will not tolerate, and distance is one of them.”

“Bond? What bond? Surely this is some of Gandalf’s meddling, meant to keep me from backing down as burglar.”

Thorin tensed, searching the Halfling’s eyes for something Bilbo could not begin to comprehend. He closed them then, loosening but not releasing his grasp on the hobbit. Bilbo made no motion to escape, knowing that he would be pinned again before he could wriggle out.

“You were dying,” Thorin began quietly, “I-we… we had to make a decision. I hope to Valar it was the right one, Bilbo, because it cannot be undone.”  
  
“The warg’s bite,” Bilbo said lamely, memories finally coalescing into a weak understanding.

“You are my ejùlir, from now until I pass on. The bond will dissolve when I die, and you will not breathe a moment without.” His eyes opened, and he appeared more resolved. He shook Bilbo lightly, as though to make him comprehend. “Do you understand now, Bilbo? I gave you life, but there is always a price to pay.”

Bilbo understood. His will was forfeit to Thorin. He would never see his home again. He would never escape the cruelty, the hatred of Thorin. His body had betrayed him so that it could breathe for a few more useless days. This could not be living: having your voice stolen on a whim and your body left paralyzed at a single word. Bilbo’s despair welled in his stomach, washing over his anger and smothering his fury beneath its mass.

“You should have left me, then,” Bilbo choked out, tears welling in his eyes despite his attempts to pull them back.

Thorin’s gaze changed from fierce to concern in an instant, and Bilbo had to look away. He felt Thorin relax his hold entirely, moving his hands instead to gently encircle Bilbo’s face, fingers stroking into his curls. Thorin leaned forward and pressed his lips warmly to the hobbit’s forehead. Bilbo sobbed then, crunching his eyes closed to escape from whatever false tenderness Thorin was giving him.

“I can’t promise it will be easy, but I can promise to care for you.” Thorin’s thumbs were making small circles on his temples, though it did little to comfort Bilbo. “I do care for you, little one, and you will not make any misguided attempts to harm yourself.” His words had an air of finality to them, and Bilbo knew it was an order.

He opened his eyes, preparing to beg Thorin to reconsider, but before he realized what was happening, Thorin had angled Bilbo’s head upwards and brushed his lips softly with his own.


	6. Blood

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apparently people are still reading this, despite being abandoned for over a year. Here's a treat for all ye faithful!

Bilbo spent only a moment lingering on the thought of Thorin's wind-chapped lips and how they were pressed against his own slightly agape ones. The next moment was reaction, and something he likely wouldn't have done if he had properly thought it through. He caught Thorin's bottom lip between his teeth.   
  
And bit down. Hard.   
  
Thorin grunted as the teeth dug into tender flesh, and his entire body jolted away from the halfling, skin tearing painfully as he pulled back. Stunned, he brings a hand up to his face to feel the wound that was quickly accumulating crimson pearls.   
  
Heart hammering, Bilbo froze. He knew he had just made a huge tactical error. What happens to a slave that attacks its master?  
  
 _Slave._ The word echoed in his mind hollowly.   
  
The blood smeared as Thorin dragged his hand through it, and Bilbo suppressed a shiver. Violence was not in Bilbo's nature, but this journey had made him question his entire identity. Bilbo wanted to lash out at Thorin again, and that frightened him enough to stay his hand.   
  
Thorin's eyes narrowed, as if he could hear Bilbo's thoughts.   
  
"Get on the bed," he ordered raggedly, gesturing behind with his bloodied hand. "Don't leave it until I say otherwise."   
  
Bilbo could feel the gentle nudge in his mind, the compulsion working to stir his feet forward. Away from Thorin, at least, who looked beyond angry.   
  
When Bilbo sat down on the bed and turned to peer back towards the door, now ajar, Thorin was already gone. The hobbit released a heavy breath and scooted fully onto the mattress, curling inwards unconsciously. This day had gone from bad to worse, and there would be no fixing it. Bilbo's stomach curled, sending a wave of nausea through his body.   
  
The bond that had been forged to keep Bilbo from passing through the veil of death would keep him chained until Thorin either tired of him or died. Whichever came first. Was there anything the man didn't control now? His actions, his thoughts, his life, all were entirely forfeit to him. Someone who fiercely disliked Bilbo. Someone who was clearly unwilling to respect his autonomy.   
  
What had Thorin said before he... well... Bilbo's thoughts skirted around that memory. That he'd care for me? Like I'm some unruly faunt?  
  
Bilbo snorted. This was his life now. If only Gandalf had mentioned this possibility before he trotted so naively from Bag End. A place he was unlikely to ever see again, if Thorin stuck to his word. The thought saddened Bilbo immensely, who wanted nothing more than to sit once more in his armchair, fire warming his toes as he dozed.   
  
A loud creak caused Bilbo to tense. His back to the door, he couldn't see who had pushed it open, but he silently prayed it was someone other than Thorin.   
  
"B-Bilbo?" The voice called tentatively. Bilbo's stomach unwound marginally. Ori. The knit-clad dwarf, though shy, had on several occasions sought Bilbo's company on their journey. Ori was very inquisitive, often picking Bilbo's mind for tidbits of Hobbit history and customs, although Bilbo was quick to admit that there was little to tell of the simple folk. Nevertheless, they spent many evenings chatting fireside or sitting in companionable silence. Bilbo was glad for their friendship, especially in this moment.   
  
Fumbling into an upright position and turning around, Bilbo's eyes sought the young dwarf in the entryway. He looked pale, and Bilbo noted the slight tremble in his hands.   
  
"Come in, then." Bilbo smiled tiredly, beckoning Ori over to the bed. Ori moved over the threshold slowly, almost reluctantly, wringing his hands as he paused near the foot of the massive bed. Bilbo almost invited him to sit, but the thought of Thorin returning and seeing them so close stilled his tongue. He could not risk his friend's safety with Thorin's unpredictable temper.   
  
"How are you, master Baggins?" Ori questioned, his eyes flitting nervously from the floor to Bilbo. "We- I, I mean... I heard a bit of a tussle and I came to check up on you."   
  
"I'm fine," Bilbo said automatically, wincing at the words as he spoke them. Ori raised both of his bushy brows, and Bilbo quickly added, "I don't know what's happening, Ori, but it's... not fine."

“Tho-Thorin didn't tell you?” Ori looked ill, sweat dotting his forehead.

So the whole company knew. Bilbo sighed, rubbing a hand across his face. “He told me some, Ori. Not enough.” Enough for now.

“I w-would tell you everything I know, but I worry—”

“No, Ori,” Bilbo said quickly, stalling Ori’s apologies. “Please say no more, I would not have you punished for this. It seems I can no longer keep secrets from Thorin, and I will not chance it.”

Ori’s face twisted, but he agreed without much fuss. “I’m glad to see you well, Bilbo. I know things will get better, you’ll see.”

Bilbo felt perilously close to tears, so he swallowed hard and simply nodded.

“I-I hope you can come see the others soon.” Ori’s eyes flickered towards the door, hands twining nervously. “I should probably go help Bombur and Mary with supper…”

“Go on, Ori. I won’t disappear. Thank you for coming to visit.” Bilbo smiled reassuringly, though he felt no ease himself. The dwarf seemed soothed however, and he rushed out of the room with a quickly uttered goodbye.

Alone again, Bilbo rubbed away the moisture that had been pooling at the corners of his eyes, collapsing back into the huge bed. He wondered how long Thorin would leave him here, trapped in on the mattress. Is his order indefinite? Does it wear off eventually, or does Thorin have to verbally release it? Questions whirred through Bilbo’s mind, never settling to think too long on one.

His stomach gurgled angrily, breaking the silence that had fallen over the room. Bilbo realized that he hadn’t eaten since he woke the first time, having declined Mary’s offer. He could only hope that one of the company brought him supper, because he doubted Thorin would remember. Or care. Maybe this was to be part of his punishment for biting a hole in Thorin’s lip.

Hunger wasn't a completely foreign sensation to Bilbo, despite Thorin’s likely assumption otherwise. The Shire had its share of hardships, especially in years with long winters. They usually had enough to get by, but there were hard times when the Thain chose to ration their stores and meals were cut back to two or even one a day. Bilbo’s mother and father did their level-best to keep Bilbo from feeling the brunt of it, and, because of that, he fared much better than the families with many children.

Not even his parents could keep Bilbo warm and full during the Fell Winter, though. It was one of the longest and coldest winters in Hobbit history. Two hobbits in his age-group had starved, one a dear friend. And that wasn't counting those that died after the White Wolves used the frozen Brandywine River to cross to the Shire. Bilbo shivered, remembering the awful clacking as wolves rummaged through Bag End, he and his parents huddled quietly beneath a hidden hatchway.

Hobbits never take food for granted. Bilbo was always thankful for the plentiful food he had, and he never missed a meal he didn’t need to.

If Thorin chose to starve him, he would endure.

Before he began his journey with the company, he had sported a slight pudge around the middle, common among gentlehobbits. Now he is lean, and his family will be all frowns and disapproval when he retur—

_Don’t think about it._

Bilbo let his mind drift, eventually falling into a light, fitful sleep.

0=0=0

Thorin didn’t return that evening, but Bilbo also wasn't left to starve. Mary had come with vegetable soup and bread, and had all but begged him to come down to visit with the dwarves. Bilbo politely refused, citing his exhaustion as reason.

Truthfully, Bilbo wanted nothing more than to get lost in the boisterous cheer of his comrades, but he couldn’t get up the courage to try disobeying Thorin’s orders. What if he could get off the bed, but some unimaginable pain befell him for doing so? Or worse, what if he couldn’t get off at all and Mary saw? There were too many unknowns.      

Instead, he tried to sleep. He tossed and turned for what felt like hours, although the room had no clocks to confirm this. The night dragged on, and though Mary had tended the fire before she left, he could feel a chill begin to seep through his blankets. He curled up tightly, scrunching his eyes shut in another vain attempt to sleep and hurry this miserable night along.

If only he could get up and add wood to the fireplace… Bilbo released a frustrated grunt, punching the mattress with some force. This was beyond ridiculous. He could either be miserable all blasted night, or get off the damned bed and test this… thing… once and for all. He threw off the blanket angrily, scooting over to the edge of the mattress. He slowly lowered one toe to the floor, and –

The door creaked open. 


End file.
